


We’ll Always Have Air-con

by cxr



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Singapore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-28 02:32:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5073958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cxr/pseuds/cxr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The power of love takes on the powers of heat and humidity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We’ll Always Have Air-con

It began as a New York summer romance. We took turns biting from the same hot dog at a baseball game, where his Yankee’s cap cast an artful shadow over his beautiful jawline. We went to outdoor dance parties where we jumped around to the fast tunes and swayed slowly to the ballads like we had nowhere else to be.

One day, we were in a park nestled amongst skyscrapers. The solid, steady, hues of brick and stone stood out against my memories of the steel, glass, and multicolored lights of Singapore’s Marina Bay, a riotous clash of color and design that managed to be simultaneously ugly and glorious.

That was when he remarked, “Ah, I love summer.”

I thought of Singapore’s sticky heat, the place I would have to go back to, and laughed. “It’s worse where I come from, my dear.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Oh yeah?” I said, copying the arms placed on his hips and the wide grin across his face. “Bet you can’t take it.”

If there’s one thing he couldn’t resist, it was a challenge. Meeting my eyes, he leaned forward and kissed me lightly on the lips. “Bet I can.”

That was how he booked a flight to Singapore.

*

“This isn’t so bad,” he said, when we reached his comfortably air-conditioned room.

I rolled my eyes. “Just be glad I’m starting you off easy.”

Starting off easy meant dinner at one of the open-air hawker centers, where I gave him a crash course in the to say ‘fried noodles’, ‘babe’ and ‘just a little more’ in Hokkien, and he promptly came back with a plate of char kway teow that practically overflowed with toppings.

“Well done,” I said, picking another cockle off the plate. “Still feeling all right?”

He took another generous mouthful of his sugar cane juice, or what was really ice cubes topped with sugar cane juice, and gave a wide grin. “Great!”

The sweat on his forehead said otherwise. “That’s good,” I said. “Because this is a pretty cool night.”

I laughed as the grin on his face froze.

*

I let him have a lie-in that morning, but it wasn’t an act of mercy. When we finally stepped out of the MRT station on the way to Gardens by the Bay, the sun was blazing down at full strength.

Once we crossed into the garden, I began to regret it myself. My time in the States had made me forget that Singaporeans don’t actually fight the sun– they simply strategically retreat into the air-conditioned underground malls to live to walk another day. Here, regardless of what I wore, or didn’t wear, the stickiness seeped into my every pore. It was like being a  _xiaolongbao_ in a bamboo steamer.

That said, I’d grown up here. Next to me, his chin dripped with sweat, and his skin was beginning to acquire an unintended resemblance to a lobster. And I had an unexpected ally.

“All the blasted mosquitoes on this island have it in for me,” he grumbled, as he scratched at yet another red bump. He looked at my unmarked skin. “How is it possible that you haven’t been bitten?”

“It’s in the blood, nothing I can do about it,” I said, shaking my head. “All that golden blond hair, sparkling blue eyes, and that tasty, exotic blood for mosquitoes. Indoors, if I may remind you, you’ll be rid of them…”

He stopped scratching and looked at the air-conditioned visitors center, evidently contemplating the thought of a cool, insect-free haven. “Alright, let’s get out of this heat,” he said. “You win.”

*

Soon, I saw him off at the airport, knowing that he was just a visitor, that he wasn’t mine to keep.

“Looks like your city didn’t think me worthy, eh?” he said, before entering immigration.

“Well,” I said, wrapping my arms around his shoulders for the last time. “We’ll always have air-con.”

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the following competition by Writing the City:
> 
> Heat City  
>  Singapore’s heat and humidity reach their peak during the months of July and August. In response, Writing the City adjusted its RayBans, took a sip of a tall iced tea and invited you to pen a poem or a short piece of fiction depicting this challenging feature of life in Singapore.


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